


Protector

by SenkoWakimarin



Category: Deadpool - All Media Types
Genre: Gunshot Wounds, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-16
Updated: 2018-09-16
Packaged: 2019-07-12 21:01:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16003223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SenkoWakimarin/pseuds/SenkoWakimarin
Summary: Wade doesn't care for pointless gestures.





	Protector

For a while, Wade is mercifully, sulkily quiet. Nathan takes advantage of the silence during their escape to start digging around in the bullet wound punched into the meat of his chest, pulling at it with telekinesis, grunting a short noise of pain as he carefully maneuvered the bullet out from where it rested against the curve of a rib. A little more to the left and the bullet would have hit TO, hurting but not like this.

“Oh  _yeah_ ,  _real_  fuckin’ manly,” Wade says indignantly, catching him when he sways, shoving him back to his feet and toward the car they’d stolen to get here. “Just fuckin’ pull the fuckin’ bullet out while we’re trying to fuckin’ run, real fuckin’ smart you fuckin’ dumbass fool idiot. Fuck fuck  _fuck_.”

Nate says nothing, but wordlessly climbs into the passenger seat when Wade slides across the hood to cut him off to the driver’s side. Wade wasn’t a great driver -- Wade  _hated_  driving, took too much focus, required him to mitigate a lot of violent impulses -- but he’d probably do better than Nate could manage right now.

Probably.

Maybe.

They’re tearing down the highway when Wade digs fingers into Nathan’s thigh, pointed and painful. “Uh-uh, not nap time yet, big boy,” he singsongs, voice caustic. He sounds like he’s panicking and Nate doesn’t understand why. Sure, the wound wasn’t ideal, but it wasn’t lethal, just bloody. His cracked rib just made breathing painful. The pain, combined with the blood loss, made him sleepy, that was all.

“You’re an asshole, you know that,” Wade says later, helping him out of the car and into the shitty safe house. Nathan’s bolthole hide outs are usually spartan but still comfortable. Wade’s are barren and joyless, usually messy, clearly not places Wade goes to enjoy himself. This is no different, and Wade pushes Nate hard onto the dirty little cot before fetching a dusty first aid kit. 

Nate just looks at him, exhausted, and doesn’t reply. Of course he’s an asshole. What else is new?

“Yeah, save the puppy-dog eyes for someone else, bargain-bin T-9000,” Wade gripes, pulling off his gloves and washing his hands before unwrapping a needle. He smacks Nate’s hands away when Nate tries to take the supplies and do the damn job himself, since Wade is dicking around like his hands are shaking and he can’t get the needle to thread. “Stay the fuck still, I swear to god, I will cut your goddamn arms off if you don’t knock it off.”

The threat is patently ridiculous when Wade is, supposedly, ostensibly, trying to help patch him up.

“Oh yeah, laugh it up, young Agent K,” Wade grumbles, resting one hand on Nate’s chest, leaning over him and starting the process of closing the bullet hole. For someone who didn’t generally bother with first aid, Wade is surprisingly good at the job.

Nate is starting to get the impression that something is actually bothering Wade when Wade balls himself up in a kitchen chair and pointedly stares at a wall rather than talk to Nate while he’s dozing, resting after the battle. He’s definitely sulking, but Nate can’t even guess as to why.

“That was so fucking  _dumb_ , Nathan,” Wade mutters, not looking at him. Even after all this time, it can surprise Nate how perceptive Wade can be. 

“What was dumb, Wade,” Nate answers, exhaustion in every syllable, but he opens his eyes when he hears Wade padding across the room to loom over him. He’s still wearing his torn up suit, mask firmly in place so Nate can’t even read his expression. Judging by the tension in every tine of Wade’s body, Nate would imagine a frown. He can’t bring himself to be worried.

“You left yourself open, you... you  _dumb idiot_. Like what even were you thinking? Newsflash, asshole: I’ve been bullet-proof the entire time. You’ve shot me more times than those assholes could have managed. And even if you  _hadn’t_ , you still know that I can’t  _fucking. Die_. Healing factor, motherfucker, have you heard of it? What kind of fucked up backwards romantic bullshit  _was_ that, Nathaniel? You get shot, you  _die_. You don’t need to put your weird glowy eye shield around me, and you sure as hell don’t need to step between me and a sweet, sweet bullet. Does that compute, Robo-Cop?”

Nate just stares, trying to process the rant and make sure he was understanding. “Why does this bother you so much,” he asks finally. 

“Because I’m not some delicate figurine you get to swoop out of danger. You don’t take bullets for a meat shield, you fucking idiot.”

“Maybe I don’t see you as a meat shield, Wade,” Nate says, a little more heated than he expects to be. “Maybe I’m tired of watching you allow yourself to get hurt.”

Wade glares at him, even with the mask on Nate can tell he’s full on scowling. He tries to turn away, and Nate grabs his arm and drags him back, wincing with pain at the effort. Wade struggles, but he’s insistent. 

“Just because you can’t die doesn’t mean you can’t hurt, you dumb shit,” Nate snarls, shaking Wade until he stops trying to twist away. Every shake tears at the fresh stitches in Nate’s chest, and his patience is wearing thin. “You ever think about how it feels for the rest of us, watching your suicidal bullshit? Huh?”

“Not suicidal if I know I can’t die!” Wade says, like it’s a gotcha, a win. “Checkmate, asshole!”

“Cut the crap, cockrag,” he snaps. This time Wade really puts his back into pulling away, and Nate cries out harshly as the stitches finally pop. Wade is shaking, obviously upset. Nate wants to scream at him, but he knows all that will do is piss him off more.

“You see that,  _Nate,”_  Wade hisses. “That would’ve already been  _gone_ , if you weren’t a goddamn idiot. Who should take the bullets in this little team up, huh? The guy who has both a plan and a desire to fix the planet but is tragically murderable, or, I dunno, the immortal comedy relief?”

“Wade...”

“The immortal comedy relief, we’re not naming names, Nate.”

“It ever occur to you that I care about you, you simpering jackass?” Nate says, exhausted. He’s tired, bloody, and his chest hurts for more than just the damn torn open wound. “God knows why, you certainly don’t make it fun. Or easy.”

“It ever occur to  _you_  that maybe my way of showing the same is by n _ot letting you die_?”

“Wade.”

“If you die, you stay dead  _forever_! I can’t -- can _not_ , Priscilla -- transition to only seeing you for cryptic conversations when I die  _temporarily_. I won’t, Nate. So let me do the one thing I’m fucking good at, okay?”

Nate can’t think of anything to say to that. He huffs and reaches for the first aid kit again. Wade pulls it out of his reach, fishing out a fresh needle. 

“Wash your damn hands first,” he growls when Wade goes to open the package, and smiles thinly when Wade snorts a little laugh and makes a big production out of doing just that. Just like that, the tension lessens, the both of them relaxing a little. 

Wade’s hands are steady, this time. When he’s finished, he lingers, fidgeting. Nate takes pity on him after a few minutes, resting his hand on Wade’s lower back. 

“Don’t start up again, Nate,” Wade warns, but he’s already leaning into Nate’s space, hand coming to rest on his head, stroking his hair. “I’m not good at the shmoopy shit, and I don’t really feel like fighting right now.”

Nate wants to say,  _you’re good for more than taking bullets_. Nate wants to say,  _I can’t stand the idea of losing you either_. Nate wants to say,  _I saved you for a reason_. 

He pulls Wade into his lap, tucking him against his chest; he holds him, and he says nothing at all.


End file.
